


Mysteries to Purify the Soul

by StudioCapsicum



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Ancient Greece, Ancient Religious Cults, Ancient Rome, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Philinda - Freeform, Uncharted AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StudioCapsicum/pseuds/StudioCapsicum
Summary: Phil Coulson didn't mean to become embroiled in a millennia-old search for an ancient Greek artifact, and he certainly didn't intend to drag Journalist Melinda May along with him.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :D  
> So, this fic might be a little history heavy. I just couldn't stop myself from making it Philinda. I'm currently an Ancient major at Uni, so all the factual information is correct, but there are some grey areas I can play around in.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it because it's a lot of fun to write. 
> 
> The title is derived from a quote by Plato, "Mysteries are intended to purify the soul, and those who remain unpurified work out their own condemnation..."

Phil gathered his papers, shoving them into his worn leather satchel; between his laptop and his journal. Academic papers were strewn across his apartment, every spare surface littered with maps and diagrams, all pertaining to a singular artifact. He could almost smell the stone, he was so close to finding out where it was. Although that might be the week old mac and cheese that sat on his bench, or the countless unwashed coffee cups that littered his apartment. 

 

He looked like a madman, glasses askew and sliding down his nose, hair sticking up at odd angles from his impromptu nap on the desk. There was sleep in his eyes and he wasn’t sure when he had spoken last, his throat feeling dry from disuse. Looking down at himself, there was a long drop of coffee adorning his shirt. Grimacing, he removed it, throwing it across the room as he struggled to find a suitably laundered shirt for the day. 

 

Unable to stand the stench of his apartment any longer, Phil wandered down to the local cafe. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, stubble scratching at his face as he squinted from the sunlight. He probably looked hungover, his hands tight on his satchel, eyes on the pavement below him as he walked slowly across the street.

 

As soon as he walked in the door, he noticed a spare booth in the corner of the cafe, secluded from the other patrons and with enough desk space to lay out his maps. Pleased, he sat down quickly, staking his claim and covering the surface with documents. His phone started vibrating again, and he ignored it for the third time that day, the same number as always flashing up on the screen. 

 

He had no idea how she got his number in the first place, but she’d called him at least four times a day for weeks. He’d answered a few times, but she’d asked the same questions he’d been avoiding from his colleagues for months.

 

He had twelve emails in his inbox by 10:00 am, all from Dr Stark and Dr Banner asking after the state of his research. Ignoring them had become easy, they had no real claim to the work he was doing, only a loose promise to let them in on his discovery. They weren’t intruding, but Phil was slightly embarrassed that he had next to nothing to show for his work yet. He’d had every possible resource available to him for years, and yet the answer still wasn’t there. He’d spent years researching the mystery cults, only to find that they were indeed, mysteries. 

 

He signalled for the waitress to bring him a cup of coffee, and apart from asking for refills, didn’t take his eyes off his work for hours. Although as hard as he tried, he found it hard to ignore the woman who sat down across from him, hours into his research, who opened her laptop on top of his map and looked him up and down.

 

“Doctor Coulson, it’s a pleasure,” she finally greeted, offering her hand. Phil took off his glasses and stared at her hand. She wasn’t smiling at him, but he couldn’t see any emotion on her face. She raised an eyebrow at him while he stared, trying to figure her out. 

 

“The journalist,” he acknowledged, putting his glasses back on and ignoring her outstretched hand. He returned to work, translating a Latin script which pertained loosely to some early raids of Spain.

 

She flipped through a menu as he got back to work, “Any suggestions?”

 

“I hear the door is lovely this time of year, you should try that,” he replied dryly, his research beginning to take shape as he located an early Christian raid that had taken place somewhere in ‘forest covered’ Spain. 

 

The journalist ordered her tea, turning back to him, “Dr Coulson, as you know, I run an online magazine, and we’re currently interested in your research.” 

 

“Couldn’t imagine why,” he hadn’t taken his eyes off the article he was scanning, trying with all his might to shut out her, the college student who had briefly sworn at his laptop before apologising to the room, and the music that was constantly playing in the background. This space was usually a refuge from the outside world, but for the past few minutes, Phil just wanted to escape it. 

 

The cafe itself was quaint, a rustic aesthetic with bookshelves lining the walls and piles of books on every spare surface. Debussy was playing faintly while a single waitress ferried coffee out to college students studying for finals, parents who finally had a break while their kids were off at school, and writers who spent hours at a time penning the next great American novel. There was a distinct change in atmosphere from the outside world to here, where everything was usually still. 

 

The woman sitting across from him was the only one interrupting the sanctity. 

 

After waiting for an hour and a half with no visible reaction from him, she began tapping the table arhythmically with his pen, attempting to read his papers upside down while sipping her third cup of tea. Without looking up, Phil slowly covered her hand with his, silencing the infernal tapping, and took his pen back. She glared at him, opening her mouth to say something when he covered her mouth with his hand. Her eyes narrowed further as she kicked him in the shin. He grimaced in pain but held his hand there. 

 

“One more sound and I’m calling Rogers with the story.” Her eyes widened in shock. “He’s an old friend and I’m sure his newspaper would love to run a story about an antiquity of this magnitude.” He was glad she wasn’t calling his bluff. 

 

He wished he knew Rogers to that degree, he was the editor and owner of the most popular newspaper in New York and had published work on Phil’s find in previous years. Although, it was unlikely that he would remember the academic as much more than a maniac after a pile of treasure.

 

Phil had been the laughing stock of his department until three years ago, when he had unearthed a shrine dedicated to an Egyptian Goddess in Rome. He was the first to discover the small Egyptian paganism sect in Italy and had become a noteworthy name to all ancient historians, notably to Dr’s Stark and Banner, who had been hounding him for new research ever since. 

 

Although, he wasn’t having as much luck this time with people breathing down his neck to find out what his latest area of research was. 

 

Phil removed his hand from across her mouth and gathered all his pages and documents, shoving them unceremoniously into his bag. She was silent as he left, watching as he stalked out the door. 

 

Beyond frustrated at the slow research process, he dedicated that evening to drinking himself into a coma. He was sick of translating ancient Greek and Latin, of re-reading the same documents, of reading new research and still getting nowhere. 

 

Steadily walking home, Phil was rummaging through his bag when he was pulled into an alley, his skull smacked against the brick and his bag pulled over his head as he watched the world spin, falling heavily to the ground. 

 

Everything was hazy, as if his eyes couldn’t focus properly. He could hear grunts of pain, sharp cracking sounds as he felt something trickle down the side of his face. Slumped against the wall, his eyes half-closed, he watched what was happening in front of him, the double vision slowing his train of thought as he tried to comprehend what he was watching. 

 

A tiny woman had one man in a headlock, her boot on another man’s throat as he struggled on the ground. Phil couldn’t control his neck as it fell to the side, and he could just make out another body already laying motionless on the ground beside him before everything faded to black. 

 

* * *

 

His hands moved slowly as he brought them to his head, trying to dull the sharp light that was pounding through his eyelids. Opening his eyes, one of his hands lightly pressed against his forehead to stop the raging headache he felt building, he glanced over the room. 

 

It was painfully white. Sterile curtains and bedsheets concluded he was in a hospital. The silence was soon broken as he drew in a sharp breath, turning his head quickly to both sides to find his satchel. His vision shut down momentarily, blackness overwhelming the blinding white as his hand made contact with leather. Breathing a sigh of relief, he drew the bag to him before realising someone was on the other end of it. 

 

Glancing at the figure who was wearily watching his every movement, he recognised her as the journalist from the day before. She was sporting a split lip from a fist that had caught her unawares and her deep brown eyes roved over him as she kept a tight grip on his bag. 

 

“An interesting turn of events,” she stated simply, standing up and leaving the room as he lay prone on the bed. There were a few minutes of confusion, wondering why she had left him and his bag in the room, but she soon returned with a nurse in tow as he struggled to his feet. 

 

Still connected to the IV, and seeing spots every time he moved his head, it wasn’t hard for the nurse to push him back into his bed. Groaning as he rested his head on the pillow, he wished he’d just woken up from the massive hangover he had planned. 

 

“Mr Coulson, your friend told me about the mugging, and we kept you overnight to run some tests. You have a severe concussion and two broken ribs,” Phil cut her off by asking her to remove the IV. 

 

“You can’t keep me here and I have places to be,” he argued at her unwillingness. The journalist stood silently in the corner, watching the scene as he struggled to his feet again, bending over very cautiously to pick up his bag. He limped to the bathroom to pull on his clothes and the nurse had left, shaking her head, by the time he exited. 

 

“Why are you still here?” He wheezed out, suppressing a cough and holding one arm around his ribcage. 

 

“Call it professional curiosity. The story will be all the better when I write about your dedication to the craft.” He snorted gingerly, hobbling down the halls aimlessly before she signalled for him to follow her. 

 

The breeze had never felt so nice on his skin as they exited the building. He paused for a second. “How did you take out three men?” Her expression remained unchanged as she turned to face him. “They were all twice as big as me,” he trailed off as she smirked slightly, the first emotion he’d seen on her face.

 

“That’s usually their biggest flaw,” she hailed a cab and opened the door for him before walking away, and it was only then that he realised she’d had a night alone with his research. 

 

* * *

 

Phil was pacing his apartment the best he could, limping back and forth as his hand ran through his hair. She wasn’t answering any of his phone calls. He’d left so many messages that he was sure her phone was full. Swearing, he kicked the couch in frustration, wincing at the pain that shot through his body. 

 

Setting his phone on his desk, he fidgeted in his office chair, attempting to find a comfortable position, but quickly realised there weren’t any. Groaning quietly, he leant over a map and racked his brain for the information that had to be there, breathing unsteadily as he tried to dull the pain in his ribs.

  
He sat like that for half an hour before making his decision. One vague location appeared in most of his research, that of “forest covered Hiberia”, or “cave spotted Hispania”. 

 

It was a reach, but he was convinced he’d find something near The Mountains of Anaga , in Tenerife. There were forests, caves, and both the Romans and Greeks had pillaged Spain. It stood to reason that they’d follow through with the Spanish conquests of the Canary Islands. If anything was going to spread overseas, it was a plague first, and religion generally followed. A simple rule of thumb, but it had served Phil well throughout the years.

 

It was just a matter of finding the Journalist and making sure she wasn’t spreading his research. 

 

Folding the map almost reflexively, he knew how he could contact her. He ran his fingers over the creases, staring at his phone apprehensively. Biting the bullet, he shoved the map into his back pocket and picked up the phone, dialling the number and mentally preparing himself for the conversation that would follow. 

 

“Coulson!” The other end exclaimed and Phil had to refrain from immediately hanging up. “Long time, how’s the life of a recluse treating you? More importantly, have you hired a maid yet?”

 

“Stark, I need a favour,” Phil gritted his teeth, hoping that the conversation would be short. “I need you to find someone for me.” Stark had his hands in all the deep pockets in the country, and would easily be able to track down an errant journalist. The problem would be convincing him that it was worthwhile for him. 

 

“Girl problems again? Phil if they keep running away I can’t,” Cutting him off, Phil interjected, 

 

“She’s a journalist.” Stark laughed heartily at him, and Phil heard him take a long, loud sip of his drink before answering. 

 

“The worst kind of women if you ask me. I tell you what, you explain what you’re researching and I’ll find this lucky lady for you.” Rolling his eyes Phil considered his options. If he told Tony, he’d immediately tell Bruce, which meant he had no chance of keeping the discovery to himself when he returned. All he wanted was to keep a relatively insignificant rock in his possession for a few years, to finish studying it. But there was no choice, no one else had enough reach to find her. 

 

Sometimes he wished he’d chosen to search for something with less international interest. He’d already heard rumours that there was another historian searching for the artifact. 

 

They were on the phone for hours, Phil explaining himself while Stark tried to poke holes in his logic. They sent each other hundreds of journal articles, pointing numerous flaws in each other's arguments. Phil had to admit that Tony caught on quickly, despite claims that he didn’t know much about Greek cults. Surprised that Stark eventually agreed with his plan, Phil wondered why he’d kept it to himself for so long, if Stark was good for anything, it was confirming that Phil had better arguments. 

 

“What do you plan to do with it, if you find it? Sell it to the highest bidder?” Stark knew he would always be the highest bidder, an edge of arrogance in his voice. Rolling his eyes, Phil deadpanned, 

 

“No, Tony, I plan on becoming immortal then destroying it,” Stark laughed before Phil continued, “I’ll hand it to a museum after I finish looking at it. Maybe if you help me out today I’ll let you have a look before I send it away.” 

 

“Fine, I’ve already texted you the address,” Stark muttered, hanging up the phone before turning to Bruce to explain everything. 

 

* * *

 

Pick-locking her door, Phil’s day took another turn for the unexpected as he broke into her apartment. Seemingly empty, Phil took his time perusing her apartment, finding it the polar opposite to his own. Pantry fully stocked, books actually sitting on the bookshelf and surfaces tidy, Phil almost laughed at her cleanliness. Not a single object was out of place, the clock ran perfectly on time, and there was a wide selection of tea displayed in the glass cupboard. 

 

Waiting patiently, Phil brewed himself a cup of tea and sat on the couch after choosing a novel from her bookshelf. She found him there half an hour later when she walked through the door with a few bags of groceries. 

 

She seemed completely nonplussed at his presence, kicking his shoes off the carpet as she walked past. “Feet off the couch please,” she said as she entered her room, not looking at him once. Phil sat up on the couch, putting the book on the coffee table as he finished the last of his tea. 

 

“I expected a warmer welcome.” He stated as he stood, grimacing through the pain as he walked to the kitchen to wash up his mug. 

 

“I have the upper hand and you have no leverage here. Therefore, I don’t need to be worried.” She walked back into the room, carrying her laptop and wearing a grey, oversized sweater and nothing else as far as Phil could tell. “You, on the other hand, have a lot to be anxious about,” she sat at the counter and pulled open a file on her computer. Pushing it over to Phil, she turned on the kettle and started making a cup of tea for herself. 

 

“Phil-osophy of the Mystery Cults,” Phil read aloud, cringing. The by-line is what actually fascinated him, and he looked up at her, finally knowing her name; Melinda May.

 

“The title’s a work in progress, but the story is ready to print.” She stated as she calmly stirred her tea, looking for his reactions as he read through the tale. “I have an ultimatum for you.” Phil glanced at her, intrigued but anxious about the story. It was one he could sell later, and the right buyer would pay tens of thousands of dollars for his complete tale, and the artifact itself was priceless. 

 

“I’m listening.”

 

Smirking, she knew she would get exactly what she wanted. “Take me on the trip, give me the real story while I’m there, and I won’t print it. I’ll let you sell it to whoever you want, but I’ll have the truth.” Phil mulled it over, she was an obvious liability, but she’d probably sleep one night under a tree and call it quits. 

 

He couldn’t understand her reasoning, surely if she ran an online magazine, she couldn’t afford to pack up and leave for months on end. There was no possible way she would last more than a few days out there. 

 

“You actually want to trek around a Spanish forest, looking at caves for weeks on end? Or did you not read up to that part?” Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he finished off her dishes and dried his hands before leaning against the bench across from her. They made direct eye contact as she nodded, arrogance flooding her features,

 

“I can’t wait.” 


	2. Chapter Two

They had been driving for hours, the landscape adjusting from city life, to suburban, to the burnt orange of the countryside. The land was sparse, lined with fencing and dotted with cattle, the odd house resting on the horizon. Power lines ran along the road, but the radio still cut out, leaving Phil’s out of tune humming as the only source of musicality among the static.

 

Melinda asked infrequent questions, trying to gauge Phil’s reaction. There had been no plan, but he’d thrown out her 60-litre pack when he’d picked her up, giving her a light bag containing only a swiss army knife, a bottle of water and an apple - for the journey, he’d said. She’d managed to stash a pen and an empty journal, but he’d vehemently denied her request for a camera.

 

She was trying to figure Phil out, and as the sky transformed from dusky red hues to a sudden blackness, she watched him in her peripheral vision. Absent-mindedly, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, seemingly ignoring the radio completely. Biting back another question, she focussed on the road, trying to tune out the static.

 

Melinda had resigned herself to sitting in silence. Her hand had been slapped away from the radio more than once, so she tried to deduce where he was taking her.

 

Her best guesses were all wrong.

 

She was almost shocked when they finally turned off the road, onto a driveway. She had been dozing off in the passenger seat but watched as the large, white house grew larger on the horizon until they were parked out the front of it.

 

Looking over at her, Phil checked that she was awake before reaching into the backseat, throwing her backpack at her and climbing out of the car. He walked up to the front door without waiting for her, gracefully jumping over the gate to reach the stairs.

 

Incessantly knocking on the door, he didn’t seem to care that it was 11:00 pm. He peered into the windows impatiently, and even from the car, Melinda could hear loud complaints from inside the house. Walking up the stairs as the door burst open, Melinda wasn’t surprised to see Phil get clipped over the back of the head. She was more surprised when he was pulled into a hug by the young blonde man, both of them grinning at each other as Phil was ushered inside.

 

It wasn’t until Phil was inside that the young man noticed Melinda on his driveway. She walked towards the house apprehensively, her bag slung over her shoulder and her expression well guarded.

 

“Phil! Did you bring a girl with you?” The blonde asked excitedly, kissing her knuckles with a wink. She immediately wiped them on her shorts when he dropped her hand.

 

Grimacing, she stepped inside. The house was cluttered, furniture in seemingly random places throughout the room. An odd colour scheme that was incongruous throughout the house accentuated its eccentricity, and plants in various stages of life spotted the surfaces of the room.

 

After forcing them into mismatched chairs around the table, he brought them tea while he introduced himself, eventually sitting with them, his leg jumping under the table.

 

“I finally have a new one,” he told Phil excitedly, his eyes lighting up as he spoke about it, “she doesn’t have a name yet but I’m thinking about calling her Laura,” Clint blushed, Phil smiling softly at his friend.

 

“I didn’t know it was that serious.” Clint was about to respond when Melinda interjected.

 

“A new what?” She was puzzled, not many people named their dogs after a significant other, and he didn’t live close enough to the water to be naming a boat. Both the men looked shocked that she was even in the room, but Clint’s face immediately paled.

 

“You didn’t tell her?” Clint glanced at Phil, “She’s going to be so mad.”

 

Phil grinned mischievously. Picking up his teacup, he stood and opened the door to the garden, beckoning for Melinda to follow him outside. The garden itself was gorgeous, an array of flowers and colours, but the path led towards a large shed that had been hidden behind the house. Unbolting the door, he paused for a second before saying dramatically, “Melinda, meet Laura.”   


He threw open the door, letting Melinda walk in first, his hand on the small of her back. She batted his hand away, her eyes widening as she walked in.

 

The shed itself was expected at a farm, tools lining the walls, a tin roof echoing as twigs dropped on it. There were dirt bikes, a rusty pick-up that was probably older than the three of them combined, and a workbench in the corner where someone had been fletching arrows.

 

Unexpectedly, however, was the aircraft in the middle of the building. Melinda spun around, her face set in stone as she glared at Phil.

 

“He is not flying us across the Atlantic Ocean.”

 

“Scared?” Clint was quietly standing in the corner of the room as Phil tested her boundaries.

 

“I’d prefer to live until my thirtieth birthday at least, it’s always been a goal of mine.”

 

“Then you’ll be happy to know that he has an excellent co-pilot.” Clint looked up confusedly at Phil.

 

“I do?” He asked, as Melinda’s face fell.

 

“Melinda is very qualified, so I’m sure there won’t be any issues.” Phil had a shit-eating grin on his face as he finished his tea, “If you don’t mind, I’m going to bed. I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.” He turned on his heel, returning to the house where he disappeared for the rest of the evening.

 

“Tell me you at least didn’t make the plane yourself.” Melinda groaned as he winced, averting his eyes and staring at his shoes.

 

“Not by myself, some local guys gave me a hand. Fitz and Mack, I think their names were.” She didn’t give him time to explain their qualifications or the numerous inventions that made this aircraft one of the most important pieces of aviation technology in decades.

 

“You inspire me with confidence.” Melinda deadpanned, leaving the shed feeling nauseous.

 

She rehearsed everything she knew about piloting that night, sleep not coming easily as she tossed and turned for hours.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were hours into the flight, sun shining off the ocean below them as they plowed through low-hanging clouds. Melinda missed the serenity of flying, memories flooding back of when she first got her piloting license.

 

She’d needed it for work, the company didn’t have enough revenue to hire another pilot, so she’d offered to learn. It was the only way to stay in the action, but it had taken months of intensive training when she was twenty-three. It was worth it for a few years, but she hadn’t flown since she quit her job.

 

Phil was in the back, reading a book and lounging in his seat while Melinda fidgeted in hers, uncomfortable in every sense of the word.

 

“You run an online magazine? When did you start that?” Clint had finally settled the plane and had decided things were too quiet. Melinda would have enjoyed the distraction that conversation offered if he had chosen any other topic.

 

“About two years ago,” Melinda was trying to avoid his line of questioning, but there was nowhere to escape.

 

“And what were you doing before that?” He asked innocently, Phil put his book down, dog-earring the page and turning to Melinda with interest.

 

She pondered how to best answer the question for a moment, not wanting to think about the answer. “Travelling,” she replied cryptically. She wasn’t lying, there had been travel involved, but that was all the information she was willing to part with.

 

The next questions she was peppered with, she was prepared for. Quizzes about countries she’d visited, about cultures, although there were more questions about cuisine than she was used to.

 

It brought a small smile to her face, remembering the good aspects of her last job, wandering around dusty cities in soft lamplight, watching street performers pack up after their last song or routine. Eating barely edible food in dive bars at midnight after a long day, making friends with old restaurant owners and tipping above average because it was their granddaughters birthday the next day.

 

That’s why she was here. To recover the feeling she used to have.

 

“What made you stop travelling?” Phil asked from the backseat, having stayed quiet through the rest of the conversation. Clint looked over at her with interest, but her expression shut down like a vice.

 

“Clint, why do you have a pilot’s license?” She wasn’t going to answer him. Boundaries needed to be established if they were going to be spending time together, and this was her limit. The boys didn’t pressure her for more, but she certainly captured their interests.

 

* * *

 

However much she wanted to, she thought it might be over-dramatic to kiss the tarmac when they landed. Stark had bribed the airport to let them land on the North side of the island and had rented a car for them which sat out the front of the building. They all agreed that he had too much time on his hands.

 

The flight had been long, to say the least. The plane flew faster than other lightweight aircraft, thanks to the new propulsion and fuelling systems from Fitz and Mack, and they’d cut the flight from twenty-one hours to fourteen. It didn’t stop every joint in Melinda’s body from cracking as they walked through the airport.

 

Clint walked them to their car, hugging Phil and kissing Melinda’s hand again, much to her annoyance.

 

“You’re not coming with us?” She asked, shoving her bag in the front seat of the car.

 

“I’m not one for treasure hunting, I’ll leave that up to you.” He winked, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking away slowly, looking around at the immediate sights of the Canary Islands.

 

“I owe you one Clint,” Phil called after him,

 

“You always do,” he replied dryly over his shoulder, ambling further down the road.

 

They both got in the car, on which no expense had been spared by Stark, the vehicle humming slowly as they wound through narrow streets. Melinda set her watch to local time, 4:00 am, feeling like she’d skipped a whole night. The eerie silence settled around them; the radio was in Spanish so Phil had left it off, preferring the quiet so he could watch the city as they slowed down to take it in.

 

The city itself was dirty, block houses all painted jarringly different colours. High fences obscuring their view as they crawled through narrow, winding roads. They drove past kids smoking on the street, stray dogs lying on the footpath, run down cars that had no place on the road anymore.

 

Finally reaching the motorway overlooking the city, Phil broke the silence.

 

“It’s only about forty-five minutes from here. I thought we could rent a room in El Bailadero and rest up for a while before we head out.” He cleared his throat, glancing across at her.

 

It was the first time he’d had prolonged contact with someone for years, and he was nervous, having forgotten how to act with someone else watching. He couldn’t remember if he snored and he was trying to remind himself preemptively to lower the toilet seat and to pick his clothes up off the bathroom floor.

 

Nodding, she pulled out a journal from her bag and started writing, and didn’t lift pen from paper until they arrived.

 

It was a small hostel in El Bailadero, not ten minutes from the Anaga mountains. It didn’t look like a tourist trap, unlike the hostels closer to the city.

 

Their room was clean, a bunk bed on one side of the room and a door to the bathroom to the other.

 

“I call bottom bunk,” he said, throwing his bag on the bed and stretching out, closing his eyes immediately.

 

“Good, I’m always on top anyway,” she muttered before going into the bathroom, thinking she had been quiet enough that he hadn’t heard. She heard a snort from the adjacent room and quickly gave up on that idea.

 

* * *

 

He was just about to fall asleep when he heard the door creak open.

 

“I’m getting food, do you want anything?” She asked as he wearily opened his eyes,

 

“I’ll come with you.” His eyes were half open as he walked out the door, pulling his shoes on as he stumbled towards the door, seemingly drunk from sleep deprivation.

 

They were both tired as they walked down the main street, reasoning that there would be food in either direction, too tired to find a map. Their shoes dragged against the pathway as the rest of the small town began to wake up.

 

They were truly in the mountains, able to see across the ocean on their right, and valleys of green fields below them on the left, slowly cascading down to another beach. They watched as the sun slowly rose over the mountains, illuminating the whole island in an array of colour. Soon, they found a small cafe tucked away behind a row of unremarkable buildings, a man who looked as ancient as the island itself ushering them in.

 

The other people in the cafe were all yelling rapid-fire Spanish as he took Phil and Melinda’s enormous order. The Canarians seemed to be gesturing towards the kitchen to a young girl who gave them all the finger and walked outside. No one seemed to follow her, just started yelling louder.

 

Melinda watched the young girl leave, probably fifteen years old, as she pulled out a phone and called someone, grinning widely. Her family was incensed, but the girl took a shortcut through the tall buildings, free from the screaming within the restaurant.

 

“It’s really pleasant here isn’t it,” Phil said sarcastically, resting his head on the table until the coffee arrived.

 

They didn’t speak while they ate, gorging themselves on food as they satisfied a week's worth of caloric intake in one sitting. He didn’t realise they’d gathered a crowd until Melinda kicked him sharply in the shin. His eyes shot up, glaring up her over his coffee. Jerking her head to the right, she indicated towards a group of ten Canarians who were staring at them. Neither of them were sure if it was their eating habits or whether not many tourists frequented the restaurant.

 

Shooting them a glare, the crowd dispersed immediately, scared of setting Melinda’s full wrath upon them. Apparently, none of them had encountered a tourist’s jetlagged ire before.

 

Melinda slowed down to write in her journal as she finished her meal, Phil trying to read upside down across the table.

 

“What’s the deal with your journal?” He said with a mouthful of food. She looked at him, disgusted, and he swallowed, red tinging his cheeks. He hadn’t shared a meal with someone in a long time. After finishing the sentence she was on, she started speaking.

 

“When I travelled before, I had a camera crew following me around. I thought they’d get enough on film and I wouldn’t need to think about it. But there was a while where I wished they’d filmed the downtime, because the only parts I could remember were the ones people kept talking about.” Phil had put his cutlery on the table, looking up at her as she scribbled in the margins.

 

She realised she had shared too much, but she couldn’t bring herself to self-censor, the sleep deprivation finally getting to her.  

 

That was the most Phil had ever heard her say, and he rationalised that the lack of sleep must have played a part, making her express things that she wouldn’t have otherwise. That may have been the case, but Melinda felt oddly at ease with the man across from her.

 

She looked exhausted and Phil suddenly felt horrible for making her co-pilot; she’d been obviously terrified of letting them down. He knew she hadn’t slept much before they began the flight, and she hadn’t had a moment to stop since. Dark circles had formed under her eyes and she was getting clumsy. After dropping her pen for the third time, Phil knew it was time to leave for the hostel.

 

There was a brief lull in the conversation as Phil threw back the rest of his coffee, letting her close the journal before taking her hand.

 

“Let’s go get some sleep, we can head out tomorrow morning.” She was grateful, although the walk back felt longer than ever, every step seeming like it was taking them further away.

  



End file.
